


To Heal a Healer

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Comfort, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>After John is injured on a case and briefly hospitalized, he withdraws emotionally, and it's up to Sherlock to pull him out of his traumatic past.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Heal a Healer

**Author's Note:**

> [abundanceofvowels](http://abundanceofvowels.tumblr.com/)' prize from my 500 follower giveaway on tumblr. She requested Sherlock in the caretaker role, awkward crush stage, and angst/fluff. I hope this fulfilled it well enough.
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta [Meg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megg33k).
> 
> Sorry I suck at titles so bad >_>

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open when the tones of John’s heart monitor picked up a few extra beats. He sat straight in his chair, waiting for John to come around, and watched a slight panic grow in John’s eyes.

“Hospital,” Sherlock said.

John looked at him. “I said I didn’t want to—”

“Yes, I remember. And then you promptly lost consciousness from blood loss.” Sherlock quirked his eyebrow. “I don’t believe your personal med kit has an extra litre of blood in it.”

John grinned. “The fridge might.”

Sherlock chuckled and got to his feet. “I’ll fetch a nurse. They’ll want to know you’re awake.”

“And then we can get out of here, yeah?”

“I’ve always heard doctors make the worst patients,” Sherlock mused before leaving the room.

After a nurse wrote down John’s vitals and checked the stitches on his left arm, he immediately asked when he could be discharged. She told him he’d have to wait for the doctor, and that he wouldn’t be in for a few hours. The nurse left and John scowled at the ceiling.

Sherlock pulled his chair closer to the bed. “Not a fan of being the patient?”

“Something like that,” John muttered. His face relaxed and he turned to Sherlock. “Did Lestrade—”

“Cuffed and caged. It was rather foolish of him to pull a knife on us. He might have been given bail, considering the court-worthy evidence was still being processed.”

“Good thing we were there to piss him off.”

Sherlock frowned, but he didn’t say anything. John was joking, of course, but to even suggest he intentionally put himself in harm’s way made Sherlock feel uneasy. “You should rest,” he said.

John groaned. “Not until I get out of here.”

Despite his protest, John did drift off in the four hours they had to wait for his discharge. Sherlock sat beside the bed throughout, regularly checking John’s vitals for himself, and otherwise grilling Lestrade for information about John’s assailant until the detective inspector stopped replying to his texts. After that, Sherlock retreated to his mind palace.

 

The knife wound wasn’t too severe, but nevertheless John spent most of his time in his room. He came down to use the loo and shower whenever Sherlock was himself asleep or, as was more often the case, out. Sherlock would return and find steam cooling in the bathroom, dishes used—though for little more than toast—and half-emptied cups of tea in the sink. He put aside his boredom for once and cleaned up enough to keep things decent while John was recovering.

In the evening of their third day back from the hospital, John trudged downstairs and into the kitchen where Sherlock was studying various ways to remove mildew from old leather-bound volumes. He looked up from his microscope at once to see a particularly disgruntled—embarrassed?—John standing almost shyly in threshold. He had his good hand pressing a cotton pad against the injury and he was holding his med kit with his other hand.

“Something wrong?” Sherlock inquired, though it was obvious John needed help with re-bandaging his arm. Furthermore, he wasn’t keen about asking for it.

“It’s in my blind spot,” John muttered. “I just need you to hold it in place while I wrap it.”

“Of course.” Sherlock went to the sink and scrubbed his hands thoroughly.

John put his kit on the counter and fumbled with the latch.

Sherlock patted his hands dry until John had opened the kit. He walked over and held out his hand for the wrapping.

“I already cleaned it,” John said. “Just can’t quite—”

“We are hardly to be held accountable for the limitations of our own bodies,” Sherlock said.

“Right. Thanks.”

Sherlock wound the cloth around John’s arm and paused. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”

“No, it’s fine.”

He finished, cut the wrap, and smoothed it in place. “Anything else?”

John snapped his kit close and picked it up with his good hand. “No. Thanks.” He went back to his room without another word.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and immediately typed a message to his brother. What do you know about John’s time recovering from the gunshot? Before he sent it, though, he had a rare moment of second-guessing himself and deleted it.

After several failed attempts to re-immerse himself in his work, Sherlock pushed aside his microscope and took out his phone again. He could always just ask John, but John didn’t seem to be in a talking mood. Then again, he would probably be less keen on Sherlock getting the information out of Mycroft. He left the phone on the table and went upstairs.

John’s response when Sherlock knocked on the door was wordless and half-hearted. Sherlock tentatively turned the knob. When there was no protest, he pushed the door open. He didn’t find John on his bed, or in the room at all. Instead, he was out on the fire escape. He glanced over his shoulder and through the window at Sherlock, and then turned back to the wall of the neighbouring building.

“Did you need something?” John said when Sherlock walked up to the window.

“No.”

John only nodded, still staring ahead.

“Do you?”

“Hm?”

“Do you need something?”

“No, fine.”

“You’re acting rather... distant.”

John half turned toward him. He was smiling, but there was little humour in the expression. “Coming from you?”

Sherlock glowered. “Fine.” He turned and strode to John’s door.

“Wait. Sherlock, I’m sorry.” John shimmied awkwardly through the window. It would have been an easy task were he not protecting his injured arm. Once through, he started for Sherlock, but stopped halfway and sat on the end of his bed.

“Does this have to do with your injury from Afghanistan?”

The thin smile returned. John ran his good hand through his hair and rested it on the back of his neck, leaning forward on his knees. “Always with the nail on the head, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hesitated, but he pushed himself to step forward and sit beside John. John didn’t react, so he said, “Would discussing it alleviate your distress?”

“A therapist would say yes.” John dropped his hand and rubbed his arm just below the injury.

“But you’d rather not.” Sherlock studied the bunched muscles in John’s neck, the strained tendons in his arms. For a brief moment, he wanted nothing more than to soothe that tension. “I could deduce, and you could correct me if I err.”

“When do you ever err?”

“I thought Harry was your brother.”

Instead of laughing, which was what Sherlock had hoped for, John’s bland smile dissolved.

“So, Afghanistan and Harry. Two separate occasions. Harry’s was probably earlier. It can’t be alcohol poisoning; you’d be angry if it was. Something happened when you were young. Not children, though. College? Early college, for you. An accident perhaps—”

“Stop.”

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut. He rose and walked briskly out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

 

At quarter to midnight, while Sherlock was quietly tuning his violin, John came down and poured himself a whiskey. He sat in his chair and didn’t speak until half the drink was gone. Sherlock continued to fiddle with his instrument long after it was tuned, until John said something.

“I hate them,” he started. “Hospitals.”

Sherlock put his violin up and sat in his chair. “You dislike being a patient?”

“Yes and no.” He leaned forward, holding his glass by the base and rotating it in his hand. “They make me feel helpless.”

“Even as a doctor?”

“Especially as a doctor.” John looked up at Sherlock with a twisted grin. “So many people to save, and most of them you don’t even get a chance to.”

“I would imagine, compared to being in combat—”

John shook his head. “You don’t have time to think about that in active zones. S’why I always wanted to be on the front. There’s too much going on most of the time, even when it’s quiet, to think about the ones who are slowly dying under your care. And I hated when it was quiet.” He drained his glass and set it on the floor. “When it’s chaos, you don’t have time to think about whether or not someone’s comfortable, you or your patient. Stop the bleeding, get the shrapnel out, set the bone, suture—whatever needs to be done, you just do it. No time to notice how much pain they’re in. You sew them up, pass them off to the nurses, and start sewing up the next one. You do the best you can then and there. Worry about prognosis later.”

“John,” Sherlock said in a soft tone. His flatmate was gripping his arm over the bandages. As soon as Sherlock said his name, though, he let go and his hand fell away.

“Harry,” he said. “She got in an accident. Motorbike. Her girlfriend’s. Girlfriend got out with a minor concussion. Harry was in a coma for two days. My second year at uni. Barely knew a damn thing when it came to being a doctor. Enough to know how useless I was.”

“You were nineteen.”

“So? If I was going to save anyone, shouldn’t I be able to save my sister? That was when I started looking into military service. Eventually decided to do both. Figured I couldn’t blame myself for every patient I lost if I was out in the field.”

“How did that work out?”

John laughed. It was dry and short. “Miserably. I blamed myself for every damn soldier and civilian who died under my care. I know each one of their faces like you know your damn tobacco ashes. And I can’t just delete them.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

John looked up at him. His eyes bleary. “Both,” he said. He picked up his glass and brought it to the kitchen.

Sherlock went after him and blocked the exit. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes you did.” John smiled wryly. “But it’s alright.”

Sherlock let him walk past. He listened to the heavy steps on the stairs and the dull shutting of the door.

 

John went back to his seclusion for another three days. He hadn’t yet come out of it when Sherlock heard him swear loudly. He took the stairs two a time and knocked sharply at the door.

“I’m fine,” John snapped.

Sherlock opened the door anyway, ignoring John’s vocal objections. John was sitting on his bed, holding a cotton pad against his arm. Sherlock frowned. “What did you do?”

“Nicked myself. It’s nothing.”

“Doing what?” Sherlock’s gaze swept over the open medical kit, the scissors, the discarded bandages. “If you need help—”

“I’m fine,” John growled.

“Yes, cutting yourself while trying to remove your stitches is the epitome of ‘fine.’” Sherlock walked in without John’s consent, something he rarely did when it came to John’s bedroom. John always insisted Sherlock didn’t understand or appreciate personal space, but this was one place he had been careful not to trespass on without express permission. “Let me help you.”

John was on the verge of saying something, likely along the lines of telling Sherlock to fuck off, but instead his shoulders slumped.

Sherlock walked over and sat on the bed beside John’s injured arm. John lowered the cotton pad and turned his face away. The cut John had accidentally inflicted on himself wasn’t deep, and the bleeding had already subsided. It seemed John’s swearing was the result of frustration rather than pain. Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves from John’s kit and wiped the area clean. He cleaned the pincers and scissors and held them over the stitches. “You’ll have to talk me through it.”

John looked sideways at him. “You’ve watched me take your stitches out enough times.”

“Seeing and doing are rarely comparable.” Of course he didn’t need John’s guidance, but John didn’t need to know that. If Sherlock could at least give him some control over the situation, perhaps this wall he had erected would started to thin. “Instruct me.”

“Pick up the knot with the forceps,” John began.

Sherlock followed his instructions deliberately and precisely. It was hardly a complicated or long process, but he kept it up until John had talked him through the cleaning and bandaging with a large plaster.

“Thanks,” John said. He rolled his sleeve down and stretched his shoulder.

“It’s little comparison to how many times you’ve patched me up,” Sherlock replied as he wiped off John’s instruments and set them aside. John would want to clean them properly himself.

 

Sherlock stayed up that night long after he closed his bedroom door. When he had helped John remove his sutures, he observed no less than five indications John had not been sleeping. The dark eyes and strewn bedcovers suggested as much, but John’s clumsiness and poor judgement to remove the stitches himself when they were barely in his peripheral view told Sherlock the lack of sleep was psychologically inflicted.

Around two, John crept downstairs. Sherlock waited on his bed, listening to the muffled noises as John moved about the kitchen. There was a long stretch of silence, but John hadn’t gone upstairs yet. Almost an hour later, the tap went on. Only after it went off did John return to his room, his footsteps heavier and uneven.

Sherlock waited several minutes before rising and going into the kitchen. Aside from the wet sink, there was no immediate sign that anything had been disturbed. Sherlock checked the cabinet were they kept the liquor. Stuffed in the back, no doubt hoping to go unnoticed, was the bottle of cheap whiskey. Sherlock had bought it for a case once, only to have solved it without conducting a single experiment. Now, he found it three-quarters empty. When John had poured a glass in Sherlock’s presence the other day, it had been at least half full.

He didn’t have to check the glasses, but he did anyway. Also tucked into the back of those shelves was a towel-dried glass, though a few drops of water remained. Sherlock put everything away and started back to his room. He turned on his heel halfway and went back for the whiskey. He loosened the top and left it on the counter.

Late the next morning, while Sherlock was working on his mildew removal, John emerged for something to eat. He stopped dead when he noticed the bottle. Then he walked right past it and went to the fridge.

Sherlock closed the book he was working on with an unnecessarily loud, if extremely dull and undramatic, thud. John stood with the door to the fridge open for a moment before closing it and facing him.

“Well?” John sighed. “Say it.”

“Say what?” Sherlock quirked a brow.

“Tell me I’m irresponsible and acting irrationally and, as a medical professional, I know better.” John went over to the bottle and tightened the cap. He put it away, right in front, and closed the cabinet.

Sherlock set the book on the table. “You seem to have articulated it quite sufficiently.”

John studied Sherlock a moment. “You’re not going to say anything then?”

He shrugged. “I could, if you want me to.”

“Pass.” He walked out to the parlour, and Sherlock followed him.

“Talk about it, John.”

John dropped into his chair. “Another pass.”

“Why?” Sherlock climbed into his, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve made me talk about my past.”

“Your past involves a bunch of near overdoses. Self-inflicted.”

“It’s arguable that deliberately putting yourself in the line of fire to distract you from your guilt, and the resulting bullet wound, is also self-inflicted. To an extent of course.”

John glared at him. “Why do you want to know?”

“While I admit I am curious, I honestly encourage it for your own benefit.”

“Of course you do.”

Sherlock frowned. “Is it so hard to believe I’m concerned for your wellbeing?”

“Yeah, a bit,” John said, his tone acerbic at best.

“Unfortunate.” Sherlock’s gaze swept over John’s features, but there was no sign of guilt in his flatmate. “However, I mean it quite sincerely.”

“Sure. Can we drop it now?”

“No.”

John’s expression sharpened, and he focused it on his flatmate. “Just leave it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

“Don’t,” John seethed, raising a threatening finger. “Don’t you dare—”

“Back to Afghanistan, correct? Clearly related to the gunshot wound. Judging from the scar, a rather shoddy job. So it was taken care of in the field.” Sherlock’s eyes lit with a moment of revelation. “Ah, I see. You removed the bullet yourself. That explains your incessant refusal of my assistance. I suppose you managed to find some friendly faces before the adrenaline ran out and shock took hold. The will to survive is as stubborn as you are.” His mouth twitched, but now would not be the time to smile. “I imagine you found yourself in a hospital next, a rather abrupt change from the grit and blood of the front line. Not particularly helpful to the shock. And then your discharge. Considering what you told me about why you went into the service, I take it the order home was far from welcome.”

“Shut up!” John was standing, fuming, looming over Sherlock. “Stop it. Stop it with your bloody deductions. Yes, alright? I fucking hated it. I hated that they sent me home. I hated I was useless. I hated that my only option is working in a god damn clinic. I hate my worthless life.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but not because of John’s anger, not because of his raised tone. In a very soft voice he asked, “You hate it? Still?”

John stepped back. “What? No. I didn’t mean—”

“I thought you felt useful. That you rather enjoyed solving cases with me. Catching criminals. Not a particularly usual career choice, the way we go about it, and I understand at times my abilities are daunting, but I do try. I try, John. I try to show you how useful you are. How meaningful you are. If to no one else, then at least how meaningful you are to me.” Sherlock looked away, more to free John from eye contact, but at the moment he didn’t particularly want to see John’s reaction, nor did he wish for John to see his. The sentiment was true enough, but he hadn’t meant to speak it aloud.

After a long stretch of silence, Sherlock looked up and found John sitting in his chair with his head in his hands. Sherlock rose wand walked over. He touched his fingertips lightly to John’s shoulder.

“I don’t hate my life,” John said. He looked up. “I don’t hate you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Sherlock, I- I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” Sherlock pulled his hand back, but John reached up and took hold of his wrist.

“I don’t know what to do about you.”

“I wasn’t aware there was something to be done.”

John smiled. It was a broken smile, and he slid his hand down and released Sherlock. “Of course you aren’t. You’re Sherlock Holmes. I vaguely remember a conversation about certain emotions being chemical defects.” He rested his head back in his hands.

Sherlock knelt before John and gently pulled his hands down. He rubbed small circles on the backs of them with his thumbs and captured John’s gaze. “Simply because I’m aware of such defects does not imply I remain wholly unaffected by them.” He closed John’s hands in his own and brought them together. “Let me look after you for once.”

Eventually, John nodded. He freed his hands enough to return the grip and brought Sherlock’s knuckles to his mouth. He kissed them lightly before turning his head and pressing his cheek into Sherlock’s warm touch.


End file.
